


War In Utopia

by ultrarosalyn



Category: Original Work
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, Parallel Universes, Partying, Romance, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Underage Drinking, give it a shot :), it's got it all tbh, this is a hybrid of fantasy sci-fi comedy adventure teen dramedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-01 18:24:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19183273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultrarosalyn/pseuds/ultrarosalyn
Summary: Just as the sun slips into dusk, right before the moon's glow fades you'll discover a world seen only by those who seek that other horizon...Unbeknownst to many, another civilization exists and generations strive to manifest its birthright of perfection at any cost.Young, university-bound Brogan de la Cruz has to choose between fulfilling his own destiny or sacrificing it for the greater good of a better world.





	1. The Traveler

**Author's Note:**

> ...just an idea I've had in my head for years...I went on a bender and wrote a few chapters. Decided to post it on here and see if anyone likes what goes on in my weird, crazy head. I'll probably upload multiple chapters at once. 
> 
> If you decide to read this story, I hope you enjoy it :)

_August 6th, 260  a.i.g (after Ivan Gavmild)._

 

Lord Ivan Gavmild VI was a very self-assured, ambitious man. He had no choice but to be those two things; it was his birthright, written in his destiny. He was the leader of Utopia, a title that had been passed down through eight generations and bestowed upon him. 

 

He was also the namesake of Ivan Gavmild I; the first ruler of the Gavmild dynasty to conceptualize a manmade portal that bridged Utopia to the Otherworld, but it was Ivan Gavmild V who brought that plan to fruition. 

 

Thirty years after his reign, Ivan Gavmild V was in his son’s office on the second floor of the Utopian Palace that resided in the peaceful village of Cathlington. He sat in an extravagantly large purple armchair in a corner of the room; it was the only piece of opulence in the refurbished, modern office. The old man hated his son’s taste, he had told him it was dull and uninviting, but his unwarranted opinion was just that, unwarranted. Ivan Gavmild VI rarely took the advice given to him; once he had his mind made up on a matter, there was no convincing him otherwise. So he decorated his office in steel greys and dark blues and a rectangular, metal desk that looked more like a kitchen countertop than a Utopian Leader’s workspace.  He kept his great grand father’s three-piece bookcase, but only because it had been bolted down to the floor and he couldn’t be bothered to remove it. There were more pressing matters at hand. 

 

They were expecting a visitor, a man from the Otherworld. 

 

“What’s this fellow’s name again?” Gavmild Sr. asked, watching his son pace back and forth. 

 

Gavmild glanced at his watch for what must have been the hundredth time that night. “Isaac Davenport,” he said impatiently, he had already told his father the name of the Otherworlder. 

 

The old man sighed a soft, “Oh, that’s right.” He sat in silence and Gavmild resumed his pacing. The clock above one of the bookcases ticked slowly and loudly, mocking Gavmild with wasted time. 

 

“He arrived at the lab two hours ago,” Gavmild muttered to himself, “I’ll give him thirty minutes to get dry, but it shouldn’t take more than an hour to get here by plane--unless Youngblood or Carruth held him up.” 

 

“Patience, Ivan.” Gavmild Sr. scolded from the armchair. He was too frail to stand and face his son, who had turned his back on him to go and stare at the mapped wall of Utopia on the opposite side of the office. “We can only imagine how overwhelmed this man is at the moment; being recruited by another world to transport orphaned babies under the guise of selling them on the...what was it called again?” 

 

“The black market.”

 

Gavmild Sr. made a noise of contempt. “That’s horrifying. It’s absolutely deplorable the businesses conducted there. Selling babies? These people are...why there are no words to describe them, are there?” 

 

“Yes, Father, that’s why I’m very selective with who we let into our world. That’s why I sealed the Sabina portal,” said Gavmild, staring at the island on the map named _Sabina Island_. 

 

Fortunately, Gavmild Sr. either ignored what his son said or didn’t hear him. That type of statement usually opened a debate between them, since they had differing opinions on what to do with the original portal that brought the first Otherworld settlers into Utopia. Gavmild Sr. wanted to keep it unsealed because he believed that fate should have a hand in deciding who enters Utopia. Once Gavmild began his reign, and the manmade portal proved to be more than sufficient, he made the conscious decision to close the portal in the cave on Sabina Island. He monitored who came and went through the manmade portal that resided in a laboratory, in the mountains of one of Utopia’s sprawling counties.

 

“It’s a shame that you lump them all in one group,” Gavmild Sr. said quietly. Gavmild, whose back still faced his father, closed his eyes and held in a sigh. Unfortunately, Gavmild Sr. did hear him. “There are more good people there then there are bad.” 

 

“I think it’s fifty-fifty,” said Gavmild tonelessly. 

 

“Who are we to decide that? We had the privilege to be born and raised here, but our ancestors did not, were they bad people?” 

 

Gavmild thought of his predecessors, particularly the bloodthirsty ones. He had a theory that their DNA had been infiltrated by Otherworld water, but he had never spoken about it out loud. “That’s debatable.” 

 

“They have potential,” Gavmild Sr. continued, much to his son’s chagrin. “Why, just over a month ago, there was a peace treaty that was signed between those two leaders. What was it--North and South something or other?”

 

“Peace treaties,” Gavmild scoffed, turning to face the elderly man, “are an utterly pathetic concept. You sign a piece of paper to say that you agree to disagree, and then you start a war with another man over the same disagreements that had you signing that treaty. It’s sad, they’re stuck in a never-ending cycle.” 

 

“That’s not at all what a peace treaty is, and _we_ agree to disagree, Ivan. The same with you and your cousin--”

 

“We don’t start wars, Father.” 

 

Gavmild Sr. opened his mouth, there was a pleading look in his eyes that had Gavmild on edge, but before the argument escalated, there was a sharp knock on the office door. 

 

Gavmild looked away from his father’s small form and said, “Come in.” 

 

The door opened, and three men walked into the room. The two men Gavmild was familiar with were Christopher Boudreaux and Gregory Stevens; they were members of his Superior Guard. The third visitor, a man in a damp sheepskin coat, was someone Gavmild had never seen before but had heard a great deal about. He knew that that man was Isaac Davenport; the Otherworlder who had been recruited by Thomas Hathaway, a Utopian representative who did business with Otherworld officials. Gavmild didn’t know much about the man, except that he was a traveler who had lost his wife after she gave birth to their only son. Hathaway, who was on the search for a trustworthy recruit, had met Davenport in an English pub. They talked for a while, Hathaway was moved by Davenport’s story, and assessed him well enough to deem him trustworthy for the mission. After careful examination and Hathaway championing his new friend, Gavmild eventually put his trust into the Otherworlder. It was a partnership that developed at length, over the span of seven months. Gavmild and Davenport had only communicated through letters since Gavmild refused to step foot into the Otherworld. 

 

Boudreaux and Stevens stepped aside, appearing comical as if they were offering Davenport up for sacrifice. “And here he is!” Stevens said boisterously. He and Boudreaux looked as if they went ten rounds with someone and lost. Stevens’ pale skin was marred by red blotches, and Boudreaux’s black hair was as untidy as a bird’s nest. 

 

Gavmild ignored Davenport and addressed the Superiors. “You look bloody awful, the both of you, what happened?” 

 

“Oh, just the portal acting up again,” said Boudreaux. “We got a bit shocked when this one here,” he clapped Davenport’s shoulder, “and Youngblood came through.” 

Gavmild narrowed his eyes at them but said nothing. He then settled on Davenport, taking in the man’s disheveled appearance, noticing the unpleasant smell that wafted off of the sheepskin coat. “Mr. Davenport,” he said, extending his hand. “It’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it?”

 

Davenport clasped Gavmild’s hand; Gavmild noticed how calloused Davenport’s palm was in comparison to his own. The Otherworlder had a strong grip; he must have been a farmer or a blacksmith. Gavmild looked deep into the other man's blue eyes, searching for something. However, Davenport had a remarkable poker face, and Gavmild found nothing. 

 

“My Lord,” Davenport said politely, “thank you for having me.”

 

“Of course, Mr. Davenport. You have been a great service to Utopia, it only seems right to give you and your son a place here.” 

 

“I’m beyond appreciative of your generosity. This mission has given me a real purpose in life, truly.” 

 

Boudreaux and Stevens let out snorts of laughter as if they couldn’t believe what they were hearing. Gavmild shot them a contemptuous look and said, “You two should be on your way to that hearing, Jackson needs your support.” He took great pleasure in watching the smirks slip off their faces. 

 

“Right,” said Stevens. “We’ll be on our way.” He and Boudreaux left, but not before giving Davenport another clap on the shoulder. Gavmild found it slightly odd that the man didn’t bid the two Superiors adieu, even though he had spent the past couple of hours with them. He didn’t even smile at them. 

 

Gavmild Sr. was practically beaming at Davenport. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Davenport. I apologize for not standing, you see, I’m just a shadow of the strapping young man I used to be. I can’t even move my pinky finger without pulling a muscle.” 

 

Gavmild wanted nothing more than to send his father on his way, and he was about to do so, but then Davenport took a step closer to the old man. There was a sudden realization on his face, as if he hadn’t noticed the senior until then. “You must be Lord Ivan Gavmild V,” he said in amazement. “It’s an honor to meet you, my Lord.” 

 

Gavmild Sr. shook his head and laughed. “Oh no, I’m no Lord, not anymore. That title belongs to my son now.” He gestured at Gavmild, who held back a grimace. 

 

Davenport’s eyes darted to Gavmild, then he focused back on Gavmild Sr. “You don’t have to stand for me, and I completely empathize with you. I’m only thirty-five and I have joint pains, time is my only nemesis,” he said, laughing. “It’s a blessing that I’m here before I get any older, I’ve heard about all the great health benefits that Utopians receive. It’s remarkable, this world, I still can’t wrap my head around it.” He spoke breathlessly and sounded genuine. Gavmild still felt guarded.

 

“It’s real, you don’t have to wrap your head around anything,” he said. Gavmild Sr. glared at him, silently reprimanding him. 

 

Davenport blinked, obviously unsure of whether or not Gavmild was poking him out of good jest, or if he was speaking condescendingly.

 

“Pardon my interruption, Father, but if you would be so kind-- ” 

 

Gavmild Sr. held a hand up. “Say no more, I know you have a lot to cover, but I do hope we can pick this up sometime soon,” he spoke more to Davenport than his son. 

 

“Right,” Gavmild said before Davenport could speak. “I’ll ring Maude to come to help you up.”

 

“No, there is no need for that,” Gavmild Sr. said indignantly. “I’ve reserved enough strength sitting here all this time, I can get up and walk down the hall.” 

 

Gavmild and Davenport watched the old man slowly but surely lift himself out of the cushioned armchair. He shuffled towards the door, without even so much as a sideways glance at Gavmild. 

 

Davenport smiled amicably at Gavmild Sr. “Again, it was an honor to meet you,” he said as the kinder of the two Gavmilds stopped to shake hands. 

 

“Welcome to Utopia, son,” Gavmild Sr. said, enthusiastically shaking Davenport’s hand. Gavmild knew that his father would later admonish him for not showing the Otherworlder ‘proper Utopian hospitality’. The current Lord inherited everything but that dazzling charisma that his father and many other members of the Gavmild dynasty possessed. No one in the family liked to admit it, but that contrived likability played a significant part in keeping them in power for over two hundred years. When he was younger, Gavmild rebelled against that ideal and he vowed to himself that he would never pretend to be something that he wasn’t. That meant refusing to smile for the press, sending his Superior Guard and Councilmen to different city halls to settle disputes, and being interviewed on his behalf. Part of him wished that there was a Superior or Councilman capable of representing him that night in the office, but he knew that speaking to Davenport was a role that only he could fulfill. 

 

Sr. Gavmild left the two alone, and Gavmild felt as if the walls were closing in. He gave his guest a tight-lipped smile. “You fancy a drink, Mr. Davenport?” 

 

“Always,” Davenport said appreciatively. “Is it out of the question to request a glass of brandy, my Lord?” 

 

“Certainly not.” Gavmild pushed aside some of the files that littered his desk and flipped a switch on the control panel that opened one of the floorboards, activating a minibar to rise from beneath. Davenport’s eyes widened, clearly impressed, and Gavmild wondered if the man had grown up poor because the hidden minibar was an invention passed on from the Otherworld. Perhaps it was a luxury item there.

 

After handing Davenport a glass of brandy, and taking a swig of his own, Gavmild asked, “So tell me, were my men useful to you during this transition?”

 

“Yes, in fact, all of them were quite accommodating,” said Davenport, a look of relief washed over his face when he drank. Gavmild hoped this man wasn’t a drunk. “Especially Sam...Samuel Youngblood.” Davenport furrowed his brow in concentration. “He’s a good man-- well-meaning--but was a bit flustered.” 

 

Gavmild nodded his head approvingly. He didn’t expect Youngblood to be any more or less than that assessment. “Samuel’s family has been in the Superior Guard for as long as this world has been inhabited. His ancestor was the captain of the ship that brought the first settlers here. I’m sure you've heard that his wife gave birth just yesterday, so that would explain his mind being elsewhere.” 

 

“I could tell he wanted to get back to his family, but regardless, he was a big help. Have you received any updates on him? I became quite invested. We parted ways as soon as we got through.”

 

“He hasn’t disclosed much,” Gavmild said. “I just know that it’s a boy and he’s healthy.” 

 

“Hopefully we’ll hear more once everything’s settled,” said Davenport. 

 

“I’m surprised he got home before you arrived here,” said Gavmild, glancing at the clock. “He leaves in Glensburgh, that village is miles from Ocane City.” 

“He told me he would be taking a jet home,” Davenport said quickly as if backing up an alibi. “He wished me well, then left right away.” 

 

“I was told that he left through the right wing, past the ICU where the babies were taken; that’s on the complete opposite side of the lab from the deck,” Gavmild mused. Youngblood was always getting lost. 

 

“He did mention wanting to check on the babies. I think he had grown fond of them,” said Davenport. 

 

Gavmild let out a snort. That seemed highly unlikely, given that Youngblood didn’t care about anyone or anything that didn’t serve him, but he shrugged it off. There was a moment of silence between the two men; the only sound was the ticking clock. 

 

Davenport eventually broke the silence. “So Samuel is your...superior?” 

 

“He’s a Superior, but not _my superior_. No one is my superior,” Gavmild said, almost defiantly. “The Lord of Utopia has a Superior Guard, they’re my trusted group of confidantes and serve as my eyes and ears.”

 

“Right. I remember learning this. I do know that,” said Davenport in an apologetic voice. 

 

Gavmild couldn’t help but appreciate Davenport’s willingness to please him. “So what else do you know?” He tried his best to sound more pleasant. 

 

Davenport reached into the inner pocket of his sheepskin coat and pulled out a small, leather notebook. He flipped through a few pages in it before reading his own smudged handwriting. “Two hundred and sixty years ago, a Danish sailor named Henrik Gavmild led a voyage across The North Sea in pursuit of a hidden cave that led shipwrecked men into another world, inhabited entirely by sirens. Uh, Henrik found the cave--found Utopia--and brought disenfranchised people through the portal. He built a civilization in this new world and named it Utopia.” Davenport turned a page and squinted. “I--I put here that no sirens were there upon arrival. And that beyond the Sabina Island was expansive land, roughly the size of Russia, and that’s where he brought the settlers. But past a certain border, they were not able to---”

 

“They were not able to cross it,” said Gavmild. “We’re still not able to cross it. Where we stand now is all that we know...all that we’ve inhabited.” 

 

Davenport cleared his throat, he seemed uncertain of where the conversation was going. “Yes, the sirens...” He also seemed to have lost a bit of his confidence. “...they had created this sea barrier to separate themselves from the settlers…”

 

Gavmild was unimpressed and even annoyed that Davenport was unprepared. He said slowly, “Mr. Davenport, there’s a belief that this world is parallel to the Otherworld. If that’s true, then we’re only covering a tiny fraction of it. Look at the map.” He beckoned Davenport to follow in his step to look at the large map of Utopia that covered an entire wall of the office. Geographically, it was as Davenport had described it to be: A land roughly the size of Russia, titled Utopia, with all its cities and counties labeled as well. Beyond the land, there was the sea. It was titled  _The Hallet Sea._   A few islands enclosed Utopia, one of them being _Sabina Island._  

 

There was Utopia, the sea and its scattered islands, then nothing. 

 

“What if that’s all there is?” said Davenport. He unwittingly triggered an awkward and heavy silence between the two of them. 

 

Gavmild stared at the Otherworlder as if he had grown a second head right then and there. He said, “If that’s all there is, then I wouldn’t have any use for you, would I?” 

 

Davenport opened his mouth to say something, but he didn’t, or likely he couldn’t. He stood there, mouth agape, and realization in his eyes that he had said the wrong thing. 

 

“Tell me, Mr. Davenport, do you believe in a higher power?” 

 

“You mean God?” 

 

Gavmild chuckled. “Right, of course, that’s what you’ve been led to believe.” Davenport didn’t react to that, so Gavmild continued to speak. “On the surface, your world is not much different from ours. I always have to remind myself that we’re not _true_ Utopians.” 

 

Gavmild turned away from Davenport and stepped closer to the large, curtained window that overlooked the palace garden and courtyard. His move prompted Davenport to ask, “I’m sorry, my Lord, what do you mean by true Utopians?” 

 

Gavmild smiled to himself, then turned to face Davenport again. “What an odd question, Mr. Davenport. I was under the impression that you did your research.” 

 

“I was briefed on you and your world, my Lord,” Davenport said quickly. “Hathaway taught me all that he knew, and Youngblood told me what he could during the transfer. I believe I know enough to get by here, but I’ll admit the philosophy has been difficult to grasp.” 

 

“ _Philosophy_?” Gavmild scoffed. “Hathaway and Youngblood have failed you.”

 

Davenport said nothing. 

 

“Allow me to fill in the gaps,” Gavmild continued. “Yes, my ancestor along with Samuel Youngblood’s led the voyage that brought the first Otherworld settlers to Utopia. He, however, did not discover it. It was a sailor named William Hallet, a good man who mentored Henrik and trusted him well enough to share with him an experience that forever changed the course of his life.” Gavmild brushed past Davenport, who remained silent, and made his way over to one of his bookcases. As he brushed his fingers along the book spines, he spoke again, “Hallet had been the only survivor of a shipwreck. It was a cargo ship. He and three other sailors drifted for days in a lifeboat, perhaps it was for weeks, I’m not entirely sure. He watched his mates die one by one, and he contemplated eating them, just to subdue the unbearable ache of hunger that plagued his body. He almost gave in...” Gavmild paused, looked back at the stoic Davenport, then pulled out one of the books. It was a copy of an Otherworld novel, _Treasure Island,_  and it served as a lever to open Gavmild’s most valuable compartment. The bookcase suddenly popped open, as if someone had pushed it on the other side. “...but then he saw it.” 

 

The secret compartment was the size of a coat closet, and the only thing in it was an antique looking chest that sat in the dust on the floor. Gavmild reached inside for it and said, “He saw a minuscule island,  it was just a cave, he recalled that it materialized before him, but that could’ve been him hallucinating from pure exhaustion.” Gavmild set the chest on his desk and beckoned Davenport to come closer, to which he obliged. Gavmild took out a key from his pants pocket, but before he turned it in the lock of the chest, he said, “Yes, that was the cave that led him to our world--Utopia.  He dumped his mates' bodies overboard and rowed as fast as his broken body could allow him to. He told Henrik that something was in that cave; that it was calling for him. He wasn’t afraid when he rowed inside it, because it lit up for him. It was a white, blinding light and he remembered very little of what happened next--his boat capsized, and suddenly he was above the surface, in a different cave, surrounded by the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.” 

 

“Sirens,” Davenport answered as if he were being tested. 

Gavmild turned the key and the top of the chest popped open much as the compartment door did. He shook his head and said, “No, they were Utopians. True Utopians.” He peered inside the chest, he hadn’t done so in years, his heart began to beat wildly as his eyes settled on the only two contents in there: an aged map of the Otherworld’s Northern Sea and a piece of parchment rolled up and neatly tied with a red ribbon. He touched the parchment tentatively, feeling Davenport’s eyes on him and a surge of excitement that raced through his veins. “I’m sure you know the rest of the story, Mr. Davenport,” Gavmild said rhetorically. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Otherworlder nod slowly. 

 

“Hallet was nursed back to health on Sabina Island by the Utopian women. He stayed with them for years--he even fell in love with one of them, and they had a child. A son.” Gavmild held the parchment in his hand and closed his eyes, visualizing himself as the only person in that room. It was finally happening for him. His whole life, his entire existence, was in the palm of his hand...

 

“The Utopians had foreseen Hallet’s arrival because it was prophesied by one of their oracles. The prophecy said that a sailor would be the first mortal to cross through that portal. He would have a son with one of them, The First Son of Utopia. But then he had to return to his world, the Otherworld, with that son. His presence had thrown off the natural order of Utopia because it wasn’t a world meant for mankind; it was a haven for these women...these supernatural beings.” 

 

Gavmild untied the ribbon that held the parchment and he unscrolled it. “However, that’s not where the prophecy ended. You see, before Hallet left, the oracle foresaw the direct descendant of The First Son returning to Utopia.” He held up the parchment for Davenport to see. It was as old as the chest and scrawled from top to bottom with what appeared to be three different types of penmanship.“Hallet translated what she said and then he returned to the Otherworld. He was too old to accompany Henrik on the voyage to Utopia, but he gave him this chest before he passed away. From that point forward, it would be our family’s undertaking to ensure that the prophecy is fulfilled. ” 

 

Davenport’s eyes lit up as if he had remembered a vital piece of information. “The prophecy is that the direct descendant of The First Son would be born in the early morning hours on August sixth, of the 260th Utopian year, in a remote English village of the Otherworld. He would be orphaned, for reasons unknown. He would cross through to Utopia, and when he has manifested his true power, at the age of eighteen, he will break the barrier and open up Utopia for all those who wish to seek it.” He looked at Gavmild for confirmation, but all he received was a curt nod from the Lord.

 

Gavmild handed Davenport the prophecy. “Careful, that bit of parchment is worth more than my entire family.” Davenport practically cradled it in his hands. “You have probably asked yourself why we don’t just wait for another eighteen years for the boy to cross through,” said Gavmild. “You have to understand, the boy’s ancestor--the First Son--wanted nothing to do with coming to Utopia. His name was Claudius, and he thought his father, Hallet, was insane. He also believed his mother died giving birth to him. When Henrik tracked him down to join the voyage, Claudius threatened to kill him, then he moved he and his family out of Denmark and went incognito. No matter how hard my family had tried, he was never found again. And thus, his own family could never be tracked.”

 

“That was what the prophecy foretold, though,” said Davenport, scanning the parchment. “The direct descendants wouldn’t be known until this year. Well, year two thousand in the Otherworld.” 

 

“Descen _dant,_ ” Gavmild clarified. “There’s only one; only one son.” 

 

“So this is where I came in,” Davenport muttered, still looking at the prophecy. “Tracking down any orphaned boy born yesterday; bringing him back here to fulfill his prophecy.” He looked at Gavmild with a raised eyebrow. “How can you tell which one of those infants is the descendant?” 

 

“Utopian blood,” said Gavmild through gritted teeth. “How do you think we do business with Otherworld leaders and doctors? What do you think we have to barter with? It’s how we enticed _you_ , Mr. Davenport. You said it yourself; it’s our health. It’s the water here, the food, the air...it’s clean and pure. It’s everything the Otherworld isn’t. They would betray us instantly and move all their people here if it weren’t for our power and what we’ve promised them once the barrier has been lifted. They hold many secrets from their people; inane secrets concerning crop circles and mind control. But the secret of our world, that’s the most valuable one. That’s the one they’re itching to exploit. Our world is so superior, we teach our children about how the _other world_ pales in comparison, while their students amble through their limited studies, knowing nothing of ours.” 

 

Gavmild’s voice had risen without him even realizing it. Davenport was once again driven to speechlessness. “You want to know why we call it the Otherworld, Mr. Davenport? It’s painfully obvious. _Your world_  is _othering_ to us Utopians. We cannot comprehend it; we can only sympathize with those so unfortunate to be born in it.” Gavmild ended his rant by turning away from Davenport to once again look out the curtained window, at his garden of newly planted red tulips.

 

He calmed himself down by steadying his breathing. He wasn’t just the ‘rebel’ of his family, he was also the most temperamental one. “Forgive me, Mr. Davenport,” said, turning his head to look at the other man. “I’m very protective of my world.” 

 

“I understand,” Davenport said calmly. “I’ve seen the worst of humanity in the Otherworld, trust me.” 

 

There was another moment of tense silence, then Gavmild spoke again, “We’ll run tests on the children, but it’s not guaranteed we’ll know who it is so soon. We’ll be observing them at length for the next eighteen years. When the time is right, they’ll undergo the final test.”

 

“Which is?” Davenport asked.

 

Gavmild smiled softly. “You’ll see.” 

 

Davenport looked down at the parchment again. There was the original prophecy, written in an unknown language that resembled hieroglyphics. Then below that was the Danish translation, and then below the Danish translation was the English translation.  “Who translated this?”

 

“Hallet…” Gavmild said irritably.  

 

“No, who translated Hallet’s Danish to English?”

 

“I-- a Councilman,” said Gavmild with uncertainty. The prophecy had been translated into English years before his reign. He didn’t remember the particulars, but why did it matter? Gavmild blamed Samuel Youngblood's incompetence for not giving Davenport the proper Utopian education before crossing the portal. It frustrated him to see the interest wane in the Otherworlder’s eye when he spoke of the prophecy. When Gavmild showed him the parchment, he could have sworn he saw a look of doubt cross Davenport’s face. He knew it would take a while, most likely years, of living in Utopia for Davenport to grow accustomed to their ideals. Still, Gavmild felt uneasy about letting the Otherworlder in so soon. He planned on keeping an eye on him.

 

“Youngblood told me that people who have tried to cross through the barrier either end up back where they started or they just simply disappear. That’s like magic,” said Davenport quietly.

 

“Yes, just like magic. How else do we explain it?” said Gavmild. 

 

“Is the prophecy like magic, then?” 

 

Gavmild considered the question, then said, “Well, what do you make of the Bible? The Torah, or the Quran?” He smirked when he saw Davenport looked surprised at that flex of knowledge. “I’ve done my research too.”

 

Davenport furrowed his brow. “That’s...religion. That’s a belief in something; faith…” 

 

“I put my faith in science, but I still believe in magic.” 

 

“I--I understand,” Davenport stammered. He looked completely exhausted. “I should write all of this down, so I’m not completely lost…” He reached into his sheepskin coat again, and pulled out his notebook. When he opened his coat, Gavmild caught a glimpse of an umbrella handle and a bottle of what he presumed was rum. For some reason, that small peek of those items humanized the Otherworlder. Gavmild was more at ease with this strange, yet kind man. 

 

“I have a meeting with the New Horizons Home of Orphaned Children,” said Gavmild, who hoped Davenport took that as a cue that their conversation was drawing to an end. “I have to make sure the children have a safe space for them until adoption. You must be dead tired, Isaac,” he added, feeling more comfortable addressing his new companion by his first name, after spending more than an hour with him. “As you know, you’ll be spending your first night here in the palace until we can get you and your son set up in a proper home. Until then, please make yourself at home here.” 

 

Davenport wrote a few lines of notes, then said, “You truly are a generous Lord.” He sounded genuine. 

 

“There’s no need for formality when it’s just the two of us, Isaac. Call me Ivan.” Gavmild tried his best to smile warmly, but the corners of his mouth twitched uncomfortably, so he stopped halfway through his attempt. 

 

Davenport, on the other hand, beamed much like Gavmild Sr. had earlier that evening. “Thank you, Ivan, for putting your trust in me.”

 

“Thank you for dropping everything to help us. I’ve heard it wasn’t easy for you after your wife died back in December. Yet, only a month after, you pledge your loyalty to a world you had never seen before. That’s remarkable, Isaac. And not easy, considering the fact that you had a son to look after.”

 

“Well, I did have some help with that. Good friends of mine came through,” said Davenport modestly. 

 

Gavmild extended his hand once more, only it might as well had been the first time he had done so that night. They shook hands, unaware of the powerful bond they had formed…

 

They said their goodnights and goodbyes, Gavmild was eager to go see the babies, and Davenport was ready to retire for the night. His son was with a designated nanny that Gavmild had arranged before their arrival. 

 

Davenport was about to leave, but then he stopped, his hand on the doorknob. “Ivan,” he said, sounding concerned. 

 

“Yes?” Gavmild was grabbing his briefcase and coat, ready to head out as well.

 

Davenport hesitated but turned to face the Lord. “There was another man there when I broke through the surface. Boudreaux and Stevens were quite chummy with him, but I also got the impression that he wasn’t supposed to be there…”

 

Gavmild narrowed his eyes. “No, no one else but the technicians and those two were supposed to be there. Do you remember what he looked like?” 

 

“Well, I actually have his name,” said Davenport. “Does Dominik ring any bells?”

 

“He’s my cousin.” Gavmild’s pulse quickened, but he kept his composure. 

 

“Oh,” said Davenport. “I’ve heard that he’s the next in line, right? Since you opted out of having an heir or is it his child that supersedes you after you’ve passed?”  His question was innocent; he was an outsider who wanted nothing more than to understand the dizzying, magical world he had just stepped foot in. If he had been anyone else, Gavmild would have bashed his brains in. 

 

Gavmild gave another attempt at a warm smile, and fortunately, he succeeded. “I’ll explain later,” he said quietly. “Goodnight, Isaac.”

 

Davenport returned the smile and left, shutting the door behind him, softly. 

 

Gavmild’s smile slipped off his face and he dropped his suitcase. Dominik was going to ruin everything. Boudreaux and Stevens were in alliance with him, just as Gavmild and the Superiors had suspected. 

 

Davenport’s lilting, Otherworld accent rang through Gavmild’s head, _I’ve heard that he’s next in line…_

 

“No,” whispered Gavmild. “Not on my watch.” 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated but hey, do what you want lol


	2. He Longs For Freedom

_August 18th, 278 (a.i.g)_

 

Brogan de la Cruz was an ordinary boy with an extraordinary ability to attract the strangest people. He just had that face: trusting, approachable, and unassuming. Wayward personalities gravitated toward him like moths to a flame, and it bothered him. There were moments when his gift did come in handy since he never had trouble with girls and his job as a mechanic’s assistant was easy for the most part. Brogan knew how to handle all types of customers. Although, there were days when he would unknowingly stand in the pathway of some miserable soul.

 

It was a quintessential, sweltering August afternoon in Ocane City. And it was one of those days that Brogan’s accessibility had served him wrong.

 

A man wearing a lab coat burst into the mechanic shop, sweating profusely from the heat and panting like a dog. He wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve, and Brogan wondered if the man should even be wearing his lab coat in the shop, let alone anywhere outside of the laboratory where it could be damaged.  

 

“Good afternoon, how can I help you?” Brogan said hospitably.

 

The lab coat man looked around the shop then settled his frantic eyes on Brogan, who stepped out from behind the front desk and strode closer to the man. He gave the man a once over and zeroed in on the right breast pocket of the lab coat, where an outline of a mountain peak and sun and moon poised above it were stitched. It was the insignia for the Superior Utopian Research Center, an institution that Brogan and most people in Ocane did not take too kindly to. The name, J. CARRINGTON, was stitched on the left side of the coat.

 

“I left my car here last night, it should be ready for me by now,” Carrington spat. He was already annoyed, so Brogan figured he was late for work.

 

“Okay, Mr. Carrington, let me---”

 

Carrington huffed impatiently and interrupted Brogan, “Listen, _kid,_  go get your boss. That’s who I want to do business with.”

 

Brogan knew better than to argue or even reason with the prick. He shut his mouth and nodded his head, then said, “Of course. I’ll go get him.” He turned on his heel, not expecting any sort of gratitude, and walked back behind the desk, to open the door that led to the main garage. “Hey, Slade!” He shouted above the metal rock music that blared through the mounted wall speakers. Miraculously, his voice was heard, and a man rolled out from underneath a blue sports car. “A customer wants to speak to you, not me.” Brogan gave Slade, the shop owner, a knowing look.

 

Slade sighed and sat up from his creeper. “Alright. Thanks, Bro.” He stood up and groaned when his joints cracked audibly, then he pulled out a small remote from his back pocket and turned off the loud music. “Is there a problem?” Slade asked idly, shuffling towards the door.

 

“No,” Brogan said, “he looks like he’s in a hurry and doesn’t want to _deal_ with me.” He couldn’t help the spite in his voice. It annoyed him when customers, especially men, didn’t take him seriously. He turned eighteen a month ago, when was he going to earn some level of respect?

 

Slade snorted and ran his hand through his grey hair. Whenever he did that, the bald spot on the back of his head became more prominent. Brogan didn’t have the heart to tell him, although, he figured Slade could probably care less.

 

He followed his boss back into the front office, where Carrington stood in the spot Brogan left him in, tapping his foot as a tiresome mother would. “Are you the owner?” He eyed Slade disapprovingly.

 

“I’m afraid so,” said Slade.

 

Carrington gave another contemptuous huff. “I left my car with one of your guys last night---he gave me a hard time---but that doesn’t matter, I need it back now. And I don’t care what condition it’s in, I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

 

Slade had walked behind the desk as Carrington ranted. He said nothing as he typed in his username and password for the computer. He blankly looked up at Carrington, who stomped toward the desk. Brogan stood behind Slade, only to observe and lend moral support. “What’s your name, kind sir?” Slade’s voice was as straight as his face, and Brogan had to suppress a snicker.

 

Carrington bristled at the obvious jab, but he simply lifted his left collar up to show his name. “Jonathan Carrington. Date of birth, five-oh-five, two-twenty-eight,” he said through gritted teeth.

 

Brogan watched Slade type Carrington’s information into the database.  “Ah,” Slade exclaimed when a profile popped up on the screen. “You’re the owner of the white Harmony ‘43?”

 

“Yes,” Carrington said, “your _lovely_ employee last night, I believe his name was David, was insistent on charging me extra for---”

 

“Well, David fixed it all up for you, and there’s no extra charge for the fuel injector. So, no problems here. I just need the payment for the standard checkup and you’re free to go.”

 

Carrington stared at Slade, his mouth agape. Brogan couldn’t help the smirk that crept up on his face. “I--I want to be absolutely sure that my car is in perfect condition before leaving this place,” Carrington said, contradicting what he said about _taking his business elsewhere_ just moments ago.

 

“As you wish.” Slade stood up and motioned for Carrington to follow him. “Right this way,” he said as he held open the door to the garage. Carrington stood still for a moment, apprehension clear on his face, but he breezed past Brogan and entered the garage.

 

Slade addressed Brogan before closing the door, “Watch the desk.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Brogan said. He sat in the large, leather desk chair and waited for the two men to finish their business. He listened intently for any shouting from Carrington, but it was dead quiet. Suddenly, the rumble of the large garage door opening shook the walls of the front office, and Brogan knew that Carrington was satisfied with the results. He heard the sound of an engine roaring to life, shortly followed by the squeal of tires tearing out of the garage.

 

Brogan nearly jumped out of his seat when Slade shuffled back into the office. “Did he say anything?” He noticed that Slade carried a portable scanner, so Carrington must have paid with credit.

 

His boss gave a guttural chuckle and clapped Brogan on the shoulder. “Nothin’ to worry about, Bro. That was a run-of-the-mill SURC elitist knob-head, a specimen we’re all too familiar with.”

 

“Why’re they all like that? I’ve never met a decent person who works there.”

“Nah,” Slade said. “I’m sure those geeks have their hearts in the right place, they’re just under too much stress keepin’ that stupid thing runnin’.”

 

That stupid thing Slade referred to was the portal to the Otherworld, which resided in one of the SURC laboratories nestled deep in the Lilac Mountains that loomed over Ocane City in the far distance. Brogan had only ever seen it in videos online or pictures in his school textbooks. It was a water portal; a pool of bright blue liquid that swished and swirled in a large metal basin. The SURC used a lot of man-made power to keep it activated. There have been instances where trips to the Otherworld went awry and the brave researchers who traveled from one world to the other either didn’t make it back in one piece-- _literally-_ -or they just never made it back. When Brogan and his classmates discussed current events and speculated over what happened to those people, there were many theories thrown around that they ended up in an entirely different world from the two that they were aware of, Utopia and Otherworld. That concept disturbed Brogan, and he remembered going through a small, existential crisis after that. He was twelve years old at the time and had to be talked down from a panic attack by his mom.

 

When researches did make it back, all in one piece, they brought with them valuable people, resources, and information. Utopia wouldn’t have things like cars, phones or even currency if it weren’t for the portal. Leaders and intellectuals from the Otherworld traded their resources for Utopian crops and water. It seemed ridiculous to Brogan that the trade was so simple, but evidently, Utopia was far better off healthwise than the Otherworld.

 

“That’s where our tax money goes to, huh?” Brogan scoffed. “Keeping that stupid thing running?” He had heard Slade grumble that phrase repeatedly over the years, and Brogan knew it was childish of him to throw it back in the man’s face, but he was still irked from his interaction with that piece of work, Carrington.

 

Slade laughed and playfully cuffed the back of Brogan’s head. “Don’t start talkin’ like me, you haven’t lived as long as I have to start feelin’ bitter. And look on the bright side,” he pulled out a small box from the breast pocket of his oil-stained coverall, “you’re gonna put that brain of yours to good use.”

 

It was very rare that Slade openly showed gratitude for his employees, so Brogan couldn’t help his mouth dropping in shock when Slade held out the box to him.

 

“Now, don’t look so surprised that I give a crap, just take the damn thing,” Slade said, shaking the box.

 

Brogan obliged but eyed his boss apprehensively. “It’s a coupon for here, isn’t it?” It wouldn’t have been the first time Slade had given a coupon to an employee as a farewell gift.

 

“Nah, this time is different, with you goin’ to school and all…” Slade’s voice quivered and Brogan suddenly felt awkward from this newfound display of affection.

 

He quickly unwrapped the thin red bow that sealed the box and opened it. Inside was, not a coupon, but a silver pin that had a ship engraved on it. Brogan looked up at Slade, he felt strangely thankful but also confused. Why a ship?

Slade seemed to read his mind because he said, “My father gave it to me when I went off to university. He told me that’s where my voyage would begin…” His voice shook again, but Slade cleared his voice and carried on. “I think I finished my voyage, but you start yours tomorrow, so I want you to have that. Maybe you’ll think of me from time to time.”

 

Brogan took the pin out and stuck it through his shirt. He looked up at Slade and gave him a genuine smile. “Don’t go soft on me, I’ll always remember you.”

 

Slade’s eyes glistened but he gave a half smile back and nodded his head, then turned away. “Alright, get back to work, I gotta finish up in the garage.”

 

He lumbered his way to the garage and Brogan spun his chair back to face the computer. For the rest of his shift, he absentmindedly traced the ship on the pin and wondered how many generations it had been passed down from.

 

~~~

 

David was ten minutes late to his closing shift, and Brogan couldn’t leave before he came in, so he watched the sunset from the front desk and played a few games on his phone, just soaking in his last moments as a mechanic shop employee. When David finally sauntered through the door, Slade cussed him out; it was standard behavior since David was always late to his shifts.

 

Brogan didn’t say bye to his co-worker, he just muttered, “See ya later, man.” David was a decade or so older than Brogan, so they were never close. David was also a bit of a slacker who argued with customers, so Brogan didn't think much of him either. He did give Slade a hug, who tried to resist but ended up hugging Brogan back before he pulled away and told him to ‘scram’.

 

When Brogan walked out the glass doors of the shop and into the warm summer air, he felt true freedom. It was as if he was on the verge of one of those grand adventures he would read about in his favorite books as a kid. In twenty-four hours, he would be in an entirely different region, settling into his dorm room at Welton University. Leaving Ocane City and going off to university was something Brogan dreamt about since he was a kid. He would be the first of his family to go and pursue higher education, and hopefully, he’d set a standard for his three younger sisters to follow. Neither his mom or dad went to university; granted, there were many valid reasons why, but it still made Brogan’s heart swell with pride at the idea of him being the first to do something.

 

As he walked down the street past the strip mall and towards the bus stop, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Unsurprisingly, his best friend Kai had sent him several texts at once:

 

_BRO!!!! are you off yet or what???_

 

_the whole fam bam is here at gia’s nd we aint ordering til u get here !!_

_your sisters r fighting lol_

 

Brogan grinned stupidly at his phone; he always loved when his and Kai’s families got together to celebrate. He didn’t really know much about his extended family so, in a way, Kai and her siblings were like the cousins he never had. He sat on the bench at the bus stop and replied:

 

_Just got off. waiting for bus but you guys can order lol you know what i like_

 

Her reply came as the bus drove into view:

 

_okayyyyy :P_

The bus rumbled to a stop, and Brogan was lucky to be the first person out of a long line to board it. He paid his fare and sat in one of the seats behind the driver. He normally sat in the back with his ears plugged full of music when he got off work, but since Gia’s Pizzeria was only a few miles away from Slade’s Auto Repairs, he figured it’d be more convenient to be closer to the door.

 

During the drive, he checked FriendWall to see what the kids from his school were up to. He scrolled through pictures, videos, and statuses of his former classmates partying. Many of them were at Brooke Hedley's bonfire, posting clips of each other getting plastered. Brooke invited Brogan and Kai, but they had politely declined. They never clicked with their classmates or the overall culture at Ocane City High School. They would look into the eyes of their peers and see nothing but the abyss. The stoned and wasted abyss.

 

It wasn’t that Brogan and Kai thought they were better than everyone else, they certainly weren’t, but they didn’t share their peers’ aspirations. Many kids from Ocane High wanted to stay in Ocane. It was understandable why, from an outsider's perspective, because Ocane City was a sprawling metropolis of shopping malls and clubs. It was the shabbier counterpart to Marigo City, an upscale city known for its nightlife. _That_ was the city Brogan couldn’t wait to go to, and it was perfect because Welton University was just two hours away, so weekend getaways to Marigo seemed ideal. Kai seemed to share the same sentiment: Ocane was the past, and Marigo was the future.

 

Brogan didn’t even wait for the bus to make a full stop when it arrived at Central Mall, he jumped out of his seat and bounded down the steps to the sidewalk. It wasn’t as hot as it was earlier in the day; the sun sunk behind the Lilac Mountains and illuminated the sky a dark, orange hue and there was a cool breeze that rustled through the surrounding jasmine trees. Brogan texted Kai that he had made it, and was on his way to the restaurant. Before he walked through the double sliding doors of the mall, he stopped and looked up toward the mountains’ horizon, squinting at the dimming sun. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of gas fumes and greasy food from street vendors. In twenty-four hours, he would smell the pure, unfiltered sea air and the woods that surrounded Wilton University. He would smell freedom.

 

In twenty-four hours, he would be free.

 

~~~

 

“My dad is talking about politics, please help me,” Kai muttered in Brogan’s ear when they greeted each other at the entrance of Gia’s Pizzeria. Kai had practically launched herself from the table when she spotted Brogan, and her hug nearly took his breath. She was deceptively strong.

 

Brogan pulled away from her and sighed. “I’m going home,” he joked, taking a step out the door.

 

Kai wrenched him back inside. “I’ve been stuck here for the past hour with five bratty siblings and drunk parents, the least you could do is sit down and charm their asses off so they stop asking me questions about my future.”

 

Brogan frowned and looked at the table where their families sat. "She’s been drinking?" He asked, looking at his mom who sat next to Kai's dad, Carl Camacho. She was laughing loudly and holding a styrofoam cup, one of Brogan's sisters, Stassie, made eye contact with him and mouthed, _Kill me._

 

“Oh, well, she just started---and my parents have drinks too, so…” Kai reassured him awkwardly.

 

Illiana de la Cruz waved her son over; her eyes were bright from laughter, and whatever was in that styrofoam cup. Carl and his wife, Joanna, had their cups filled to the brim; they beckoned him over as well, cheering his name. The other patrons in the restaurant looked over at the table in mild interest; it was always noisy at Gia’s, so there was no need to be shy. Brogan, feeling more at ease, sat across from his mom and smiled at her. "There's my little worker bee," Illiana cooed. Stassie rolled her eyes and made a disapproving face, but Brogan ignored her. At fifteen, she was still too young to stop feeling embarrassed about being seen with her family out in public.

 

“Hi mom,” he said kindly, “how was your day?”

 

Illiana took a sip from her cup and shrugged her shoulders. “It was, ya know, same old shit different day,” she said, barely swallowing her drink. “The real question is, how was _your_ last day at Slade’s?”

 

“Uneventful,” Brogan replied, serving himself a few slices of pizza from the large serving platter in the middle of the table. Tori and Cait, Brogan’s two youngest sisters, barely acknowledged his arrival with a half-hearted wave. They were busy chatting excitedly with Kai’s sister, Malia. Kai and Malia’s brother, the youngest of all the siblings, Gabriel, sat at the end of the table playing a game on his phone. He didn’t even look up when Brogan sat down.

 

“Slade didn’t wish you well or congratulate you?”

 

Brogan hesitated, deciding whether or not he should talk about the pin that Slade gave him. He felt guilty for wanting to keep it a secret, but there was something in him that decided it was only right. It was a piece of Brogan that he wasn't willing to share with his family, and it was very rare that he allowed himself to be selfish.

 

“Yeah, he wished me good luck,” he said casually. “I think he’s secretly sad I’m leaving him alone with David.”

 

“That slacker’s still working there?” Illiana laughed, taking a slice of pizza off of Brogan’s plate.

 

“He’s going to outlive us all and work there ‘til the end of time, mark my words,” Kai said jokingly. She had taken a seat next to Brogan, so she was sitting across from her dad, who decided to join the conversation.

 

“Brogan, my boy!” Carl beamed, fueled with whatever Illiana was drinking. “How’s it feel to officially be a student at Wilton University!”

 

“We’re not there yet, Dad,” Kai muttered under her breath so only Brogan could hear. He gave her a small kick under the table.

 

“It feels great,” Brogan said sincerely. “I’ve been going through the handbook and curriculum for Council Law all week long.” He wasn’t lying, Utopian Law was what he decided to specialize in, and actually, for the past year he had been reading up on it. Carl was an Ocane City Councilman, and Brogan had always looked up to him as a mentor.

 

“That’s great to hear, you should always keep yourself ahead of the game,” Carl advised. “Hey, I was wondering if I could steal you away for a minute or two, so we can go over a few things…”

 

Kai sighed, “He just got here, Dad.”

 

“Oh no, not now, whenever he’s ready,” Carl said quickly.

 

“I’m ready now,” Brogan said, getting up from the table. He was too excited to eat, and he always jumped at the chance to speak to Carl alone, much to Kai’s annoyance. From his peripheral, Brogan saw Stassie and Kai exchange an exasperated look; the only time those two ever bonded, was through their shared disinterest in politics. Joanna gave him a friendly smile and winked, then drew Illiana back into whatever discussion they had before Brogan had shown up.

 

Carl led the way out into the mall. He and Brogan wandered over to the railing that looked over the first floor. They watched shoppers weave through the hordes of families out and about on a Saturday night. A few beats later, Carl spoke, “We’re very proud of you, Brogan.”

 

Brogan immediately felt his cheeks burn. He didn’t take too well with sentimental talk, an intolerance he most likely picked up from Slade. “Uh, thank you,” he said quietly.

 

Carl continued, “No, really. Joanna and I talk about it all the time; how responsible and mature you were after your father walked out.” Brogan knew that if Carl hadn’t been drinking, this discussion wouldn’t take place. He shifted uncomfortably and looked down at a mother reprimanding her screaming toddler, avoiding Carl’s glassy eyes.

 

“Your mother wouldn’t have been able to carry on if it hadn’t been for you---”

 

“That’s not true,” Brogan cut in defensively. “My mom works hard, harder than anyone I’ve ever known. I wouldn’t be where I’m at now if it wasn’t for her.” He stopped himself before he went completely off. He usually felt nothing but admiration for Carl, but he never allowed anyone, no matter who they were, to speak ill of his mom.

 

“I’m sorry,” Carl said soothingly, “I didn’t mean it that way, I meant to say that you were her emotional support. You watched over your sisters, you protected your home, you stepped up and became the man of the house.”

 

“We didn’t need a _man of the house,_ ” Brogan spat, regretful that he had been so eager to leave the table. If he had a silver york for every time someone had told him that he was _the man of the house,_  he wouldn’t have needed a full-ride scholarship to get into Wilton.

 

Carl, thankfully, didn’t say anything. He shut his mouth and nodded understandingly, and Brogan was once again reminded of why he admired the man. “I have always thought highly of Illiana,” Carl said carefully, “she’s a strong person, and you’ve inherited all her best traits.”

 

Brogan was tempted to ask, _as opposed to her worst traits?_ But he knew that that would be him looking for something to be offended over, and Carl seemed genuinely apologetic. He decided to ease up on the man. “Thank you, sir,” he said respectfully. He looked over the railing again, at the mother who was no longer reprimanding her child but cradling him instead. She sang softly in his ear and he stared up at her lovingly.

 

“I didn’t take you out here to give you compliments,” Carl said jokingly, obviously trying to defuse the tension. “I wanted to give you a...stern talking to if you will.”

 

Brogan looked at Carl questionably, unsure of where this was going. “It’s about the path you’ve chosen to take,” Carl explained. “What you’re specializing in, Council Law is something you don’t take lightly.”

 

“Of course,” Brogan said, all his defenses lifted now that the conversation shifted to school.  

 

“I understand that you’re going to be overwhelmed by all of the freedom you’ll be presented with out there, and I know that you’ve shown an interest in joining the brawling team,” Carl added. Brogan nodded his head because it was true, brawling was something he'd been training for since he was twelve. If he made it on the team, a lot of his free time would be dedicated to the sport. “Which is fine,” Carl said reassuringly, “however, I don’t want you to lose sight of the big picture, okay? Remember why you’re there, what you want to accomplish, what kind of life you want after you graduate…”

 

A fantasy played out in Brogan’s mind when Carl said that: Brogan graduating, getting a job as a Councilman in Marigo City, and earning enough money to not only support himself but his family. He’s buying his mom a new home, and himself a car. He’s got a wife and kids of his own, and he’s living a blissful, stress-free life…

 

“...will you be able to do that, Brogan?” Carl’s voice burst Brogan’s dream bubble like a needle to a balloon.

 

Brogan felt his face burn when he realized he had unwittingly tuned Carl out. “I’m sorry?” He said sheepishly.

 

Carl shook his head but appeared to fight back a smile. “Will you be able to balance your social life with studying?”

 

“Oh, definitely,” Brogan said confidently. He’d been a straight-A student since primary school, and he was involved in sports. It was hard to maintain good grades, but he managed to power through any obstacles that stood in his way.

 

“Okay, believe me, Brogan, I’m not trying to rain on your parade,” Carl reasoned, “but I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did.”

 

“What mistakes did you make?”

 

Carl hesitated but answered, “I was a great student until I met Joanna…” He laughed but there was an underlying bitterness in his voice that Brogan detected. “I mean, I did well enough to do what I’m doing now, but I could have been a Superior if I really applied myself.”

 

Brogan’s eyes widened in surprise. He never knew that Carl once had aspirations of being a Superior. Admittedly, Brogan didn’t really have a high opinion of them. Slade referred to them as Lord Gavmild’s glorified guard dogs, and their interference in the way Councilmen handled their respective cities was a gripe many people, including Carl, had.

 

“I’m not the type to get distracted by a girl,” Brogan said quickly, instantly regretting how snotty he sounded. It was Carl’s turn to widen his eyes and look taken back. “Sorry,” Brogan muttered.

 

Carl laughed and said, “I know you’re not. Kai, on the other hand…”

 

Brogan sighed but nodded his head in agreement. Kai just ended a very long and tumultuous relationship with a girl they had known since primary school, Megan Wagner.

Before the two girls had been caught kissing under the gymnasium bleachers back in eighth grade, everyone and their mother assumed that Kai and Brogan were going to date and eventually get married. However, Brogan knew since the beginning of his and Kai’s friendship that their love for each other was purely platonic. They shared their first kiss when they were eleven, just to get it over with, and it ended with neither of them convinced that they’d be anything more than friends. Brogan still shuddered at the memory of his younger self tentatively puckering his lips and leaning in towards his cringing best friend.

 

Brogan, although in agreeance with Carl, decided to speak in favor of Kai. “She’ll be fine she’s always been a good student, better than me at times. I have to study twice as hard to get the grades she has.”

 

“She a genius, isn’t she?” Carl chuckled. “A lazy genius, but a genius nonetheless.”

 

 Brogan let out a small laugh, relieved that the conversation seemed to be coming to a close. It was the first time he hadn’t enjoyed a talk with Carl, and he felt his stomach rumble from hunger, so he was eager to get back inside.

 

“You must be starving, your gut’s trying to speak for you,” Carl said with another laugh. Brogan realized he didn't hear his stomach growl out loud, but he was glad Carl noticed. The older man began to move away from the railing, and Brogan followed suit. "Thank you for giving me your time, Brogan. I know you're a good kid, but the father in me wanted to reach out to you."

 

Brogan pushed back any discomfort that threatened to sweep over him, and instead nodded his head. He and Carl made their way back to the family table and brushed off the interrogative looks from Kai and Stassie. “You don’t look as thrilled as I expected you to be,” Kai muttered in his ear. “What happened?”

 

Brogan shook his head. “Nothing, your dad just wanted to give me a small pep talk, that’s all.”

 

“Well, he did a poor job of giving you pep.”

 

Brogan elbowed her and bit back a smirk, he didn’t want Carl to think he was disrespecting him. He really did value the older man’s wisdom in life, but Brogan hated it when anyone--from Carl to Slade--tried to take on the father figure role they thought Brogan so desperately needed.

 

Brogan spent the rest of the dinner inhaling seven slices of pizza and two cups of soda. He barely spoke and ignored Stassie's looks of disgust at his ravenous appetite. After he finished his last slice, he felt very content sipping on his drink and making small talk with his mom and Joanna. But when the waiter came by with the check, all the contentment was overshadowed by sudden anxiety. He felt his stomach twist in knots when he saw his mom reach into her purse for her wallet.  

 

"Put that away, Illiana," Carl said lightly, "this one's on us!"

 

Illiana shook her head and looked through her wallet, presumably for cash, because Brogan didn't believe there was enough money in their account for her to use the card. He watched her fumble through the folds of her wallet; then she looked through her purse, her brows creased with worry. "I could've sworn I had more than change with me," she muttered. Loose change and empty pill bottles rattled within the purse, and beads of sweat began to trickle down the sides of her face. She had had too much to drink, but Brogan knew his mom was conscious enough to feel embarrassed.

 

Joana chimed in, "Really, Illiana, it's fine. We got it." Her voice was gentle and she put a reassuring hand on her friend's shoulder.

 

Brogan watched his mom shake her head again, and he began to reach for his wallet, but Kai stopped him.

 

"No," Illiana said defiantly, "I won't let you pay for this entire meal. I insist that I should pay for my family."

 

"Don't be unreasonable!" Carl still kept a happy disposition. "We initiated this whole thing, so we should be the ones to pay for it." He pulled out his wallet, and Brogan almost felt resentful from its robust size.

 

"No!" Illiana shouted, causing the neighboring patrons to look over at their table. "I can pay for my kids--I can buy them a damn pizza!"

 

The entire table fell silent; even the little sisters stared wide-eyed at Illiana, and Gabriel looked up from his phone. Brogan's cheeks burned, but he ignored everyone else and reached across the table to touch his mom's shaking hand. "Mom," he said quietly, "it's okay. We'll get it next time."

 

Illiana stared at her son, the spitting image of herself, and their brown eyes locked. Brogan tried his best to communicate with her silently; he raised his brows, his way of telling her to put her wallet away. Illiana's eyes glistened, but she shoved her wallet back into her purse and sighed. "Thank you," she whispered to Carl and Joanna.

 

The couple looked at her sympathetically and Brogan hated it. He hated feeling pitied and powerless watching his mom struggle. His resentment grew when Carl took out thirty tal, purple and green slips of cash, and put it in the bill holder. Gavmild III, the face on the money, seemed to mock Brogan with his haughty expression.

 

A few moments of uncertainty passed, the two families remained silent when the waiter and busboy came back for the payment and dishes. When they walked off, Carl cleared his throat and Brogan heard Kai let out a small sigh.

 

“It’s a big day tomorrow,” Carl addressed them both with a proud smile. “This is your last night as Ocane City civilians.” Kai groaned, and Stassie gave Carl one of her classic side-eyes, but he carried on. “After tonight, you’ll officially be students at Wilton University, _School of Warriors_!” He raised his cup and shook it, motioning everyone to do the same. No one except Carl was feeling celebratory. The kids barely raised their cups, and even Illiana and Joanna looked sheepish lifting theirs.

 

“To Kai and Brogan!” Carl cheered.

 

The younger siblings muttered out of sync and the mothers tried yet failed to match Carl’s enthusiasm, so the toast was a jumbled mess.

 

“We can do better than that,” Carl said, refusing to acknowledge the exasperated looks from his friends and family. “Come on now, _to_ _Kai and Brogan_!”

 

Brogan looked around the table. Joanna, Kai, and the siblings all seemed tense. He then looked at his mom, and his heart sank. She was crying. She had a tight smile on her face, but there were tears down her cheeks. Brogan hardly ever saw his mom cry. He knew she always held it together for the sake of him and his sisters. Her not having the money to pool some money for a shared pizza was the breaking point.

 

Suddenly, a powerful motivating force surged through Brogan’s body. It had his heart pumping hopefully, and his mind racing with endless possibilities. He knew right then and there that he was going to succeed in everything that he set out to accomplish. Wilton University was only the beginning. He would dedicate the next four years solely to his academics. Then, he would graduate at the top of his class and earn a high ranking position as a Councilman, or even a Superior. He would make enough money to obtain the lifestyle he had always desired. He would be able to support his family, and his mom won’t have to work again. He won’t have to see her cry over money ever again.

 

Brogan raised his cup and looked at his mom. “To a new life.”

 

Carl looked mildly bewildered at Brogan’s toast, but he held his cup high. “Yes, Brogan! _To a new life!_ ”

 

Everyone else gave Brogan’s toast the same half-hearted cup raise and monotonous cheer as they had with Carl’s. It was evident that they were all ready to go home. Illiana’s smile softened when her eyes met Brogan’s, and he knew that was her silent way of saying _I love you_.  

 

~~~

 

After the de la Cruz family said their goodbyes to the Camachos and left the restaurant, Brogan offered to drive home. Illiana looked more than happy to toss him the keys to their grey, ‘52 Kalimont. It was an admittedly shitty four-door sedan that she had bought from a neighbor after her husband had taken off with the shiny blue sports car he had gotten himself for his thirty-seventh birthday. Brogan often wondered if his dad got that car to feed some sad and desperate urge that most men with families had. Brogan also wondered if there had been a younger woman in the picture because that would’ve just been the cherry on top of the cliche.

 

Stassie, Tori, and Cait all piled into the backseat talking excitedly about some teen show Brogan had never heard of. Illiana fell asleep within minutes, clearly exhausted from working two shifts at different jobs on the same day. Normally, Brogan would turn on the radio to drown out his sisters babbling, but his thoughts were loud enough to keep him in his own little world. He cut through different neighborhoods, bypassing city traffic, and eventually pulled up the driveway of their modest townhome. He woke his mom up gently as his sisters slammed the back doors open and leaped out of the car, giggling. “Mom, we’re home,” he said quietly.

 

He helped her get out of the car, she had her purse and a large grocery bag of leftovers from the diner she worked at. He took both things so that she had nothing to carry. After Brogan fumbled with the key in the lock and opened the door, the girls made a beeline for the stairs and ran to their room. “Thanks for the help,” he muttered.

 

Illiana took her purse from him and said, “What am I going to do without you?”

 

Brogan understood she meant it lightly, but that didn’t stop the pang of guilt in his chest. They made their way to the kitchen and Brogan set the heavy bag of leftovers on the breakfast table while Illiana grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. They stood in comfortable silence for a bit, and Brogan took in the state of the kitchen.

 

Illiana’s waitress uniform hung from a hook on the kitchen door. There were dirty dishes piled up in the sink, and trash spilled out from the waste can by the backdoor. The floor was littered with take-out containers, and the refrigerator was stained with various sauces and sodas. Brogan was annoyed that none of his sisters offered to help clean around the house; it wasn’t like they worked demanding jobs with grueling hours. Stassie was a part-time hostess at an upscale restaurant, but Brogan knew she took a lot of days off to go hang out with her friends. It was apparent that the girls were too comfortable with their mom and older brother providing for them; they were going to have a rude awakening once Brogan left for school.

 

He got up and stretched, then pointed at the waste can. “I’ll do the dishes and take the trash out before I leave, mom.”

“Oh, honey, you don’t have to do that,” Illiana said, steering him away from the sink. “I’ll have the girls take care of it.”

 

Brogan gave her a doubtful look but didn’t bother to argue. He hoped for her sake that his little sisters would comply. “Okay, they can do the dishes but I’ll still take the trash out, it’s too full.”

 

Illiana nodded her head but Brogan could tell that her mind was elsewhere because she had a concerned look on her face.

 

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

 

Illiana looked up at her son; he was a foot taller than her but identical in almost every other way. They had almond shaped brown eyes, dark hair, and brown skin. She was a pretty woman, and he was a handsome young man. However, to both Illiana’s joy and dismay, Brogan had inherited his father’s charming smile and strong jawline. Those two features were all that Connor Walsh left his wife seven years ago when he walked out the door after an argument to ‘get some air’ and never came back.

 

“Nothing,” Illiana said quietly. “I’m just...really going to miss you.”

 

Brogan felt another stab of guilt. He opened his arms wide and said, “You’ll see more of me during the holidays, come here…” He hugged her and kissed the top of her head. “And I’ll call you, so it’ll be like I never even left, okay?”

 

Illiana nodded her head and took in a deep, steadying breath. It was her method for holding back tears. She pulled away after a minute or so and evaded Brogan’s eyes. “You should get ready for bed, you have a long day ahead of you.”

Brogan hesitated, but Illiana took another breath and looked at him, her eyes were dry. She smiled and said, “I’m so proud of you.”

 

And with that, she left the kitchen and made her way up the stairs towards her room. Brogan didn’t move from his spot by the sink until he heard the sound of her door closed shut. He took the trash out and washed a few dishes to rid himself of any conflicting emotions. When that was done, he made his way up to his room, more than ready to go to sleep. He swung the door open and nearly gasped at the sight of Stassie painting a purple streak on one of the walls.

 

“Stass--what the fuck?!”

 

She barely looked up when she said, “I’m trying to decide what color looks best.” She raised her hand and lazily gestured. Brogan looked around the room; there were different colored streaks on all four walls. His temper began to rise.

 

“Can’t you wait ‘till I leave?”

 

“I wanted to see what the colors looked like at night with the lamplight.”

 

“Right,” said Brogan. He stepped into his room and shut the door behind him, then strode across the room to confront his sister. He snatched the paintbrush from her hand and chucked it across the floor.

 

“You idiot! The carpet!” Stassie looked in absolute distress at the purple stained carpet.

 

“Let’s get a few things straight,” Brogan hissed through clenched teeth. “You can have this room, fine, but you’re going to have to pull more than your weight around here once I’m gone.”

 

Stassie’s blue eyes narrowed; she was younger than Brogan, but there was no denying that she was a whole lot meaner than him. “Wow, how are we going to survive without your never-ending sacrifice, Bro?”

 

“I mean it, Stassie. Mom can’t do it all by herself, and you’re the second oldest so half of this shit falls on you.”

 

“I have a job,” Stassie huffed, “and I’ve been saving up money this summer to help.”

 

“How can you have enough money to save if you barely work, Stass?”

 

“Fuck you, you don’t know my life!”

 

Brogan heaved out a sigh and pressed his fingers deep into his furrowed brow. “Okay, whatever. Just promise me you’re going to help.”

 

“Mom said you’ll be getting a job either at Wilton or in the town,” said Stassie. “Aren’t you going to help by sending us some money?”

 

Brogan’s stomach sank. Did his mom promise his sisters that he was going to help support them even while he was away? He had told her he was planning on getting a job, and that he would try to help as much as possible, but it would barely be enough to supplement her income. He hoped he could have some money leftover for himself.

 

“It won’t be enough,” he said, looking away from his little sister’s scrutinizing eyes. “I’ll do the best I can.”

 

Stassie opened her mouth, most likely ready to fire a retort, but she seemed to stop herself. Instead, she said, “I’ll open up my availability and start covering shifts.”

 

Brogan stared at her as if she had grown a second head. He wanted to thank her, but that would be weird, so he pointed at the wall adjacent to his bed. “Pink? Really?”

 

“It’s magenta,” Stassie said with a small, satisfactory grin on her face. “I think I like that one the best.”

 

They argued over which color Brogan would let her paint the walls with for a good ten minutes. Eventually, they settled on a soft lilac. Brogan wasn’t entirely sure where he would sleep when he came to visit, but he was betting he'd have to bunk on the couch. There was no way that Stassie would give up that room once she sank her claws into it. Brogan happily slammed the door on her when she picked up her paint samples and left. He was finally alone.

 

He dragged his packed suitcase from under his bed and checked it to make sure that he had everything. There wasn’t much he was taking, just clothing and toiletries. He zipped the suitcase back up and reached into his drawer for the Wilton brochure, then he fell back onto his bed and flipped through the glossy pages. He had read the brochure obsessively all summer, he practically had the entire thing memorized. But then his eyelids began to droop, and his vision blurred from sleepiness. The words before him started to blend together and form incohesive sentences:  

 

_Unlock your fullest potential at Wilton University...Headmaster Danika Ivy welcomes each and every student...Just a few miles from the beach!... The future is in your hands...Brawling Championship...Over a thousand graduates have served in Councilship...Lord Gavmild approves...Otherworld Education...Enjoy a weekend getaway in Marigo City...Cathaway Village just miles down the road...How to get a job at Wilton...Time is of the essence…Curfew shall be...Upperclassmen have private..._

 

“Warriors have won seven championships in the past twenty years,” Brogan mumbled sluggishly. “Coach Peters has led…”

 

He fell into a deep sleep.

 

He was swimming with people he had never met before, they were telling him to go under a ship. He told them that that was dangerous but they just egged him on. There were fireworks in the sky--brilliant colors--the same colors Stassie painted the walls with...The sea was emerald green. A voice called out, “ _He’s been here this whole time!_ ” It was a familiar voice, so Brogan swam towards it…But then the light was gone...No more fireworks...It was all dark...Brogan began to drown...He tasted something foul in his mouth...

 

Brogan woke up drenched in cold sweat and gasping for air. He was in complete darkness. His mom must have checked in on him and turned the light off. His cheeks felt damp, so he touched his skin and realized that there were tears on his face. Had he been crying in his sleep? The house was eerily quiet; the only sound he heard was his own heavy breathing. He stared up at the ceiling and suddenly felt the strangest compulsion to say something. It was as if he were experiencing an amplified form of deja vu. His subconscious mind opened his mouth, and he said out loud, “ _That’s poison_.”

 

Then his head fell back into his pillow and he closed his eyes. He was asleep within seconds, and he dreamt of buying himself a new car.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo if you read this whole thing you're a loser
> 
>  
> 
> jk. Once again, thanks for reading.


End file.
